Avenue of Regrets

PRAISE FOR R.J. PINEIRO

THE FALL

It’s a thrill-a-minute story, with good here-and-now technology, and a striking scientific premise at its heart. —Wall Street Journal

"R.J. Pineiro breaks the sound barrier with The Fall, one of the most original and electrifying science-based thrillers I have read in a long time. The opening chapter—the incredible fall itself—is mind-bending enough, but it only gets better, with cutting-edge science, vivid characters, and a plot that accelerates to a mind-warping climax. Highly recommended." —Douglas Preston, New York Times bestselling author of The Kraken Project

Imaginative premise. —Publishers Weekly

This alternate world sci-fi thriller is packed with high stakes and moves at a high speed. —Kirkus

"Jack’s adrenaline is contagious - The Fall will keep readers on the edges of their seats, waiting to find out what crazy stunt Jack will perform next and to learn the fate of this charming, daredevil hero." —Forces of Geek

WITHOUT MERCY

Constant action, sympathetic heroes, believable evildoers, and absolute authenticity on every page. —Publishers Weekly, starred review

The authenticity of the story makes the tale particularly terrifying, especially at a time when real-life international relations appear unstable. A fine apocalyptic thriller right up the alley of Clancy and Thor fans. —Booklist

"A masterful thriller written by men of deep experience. Epic in scale yet swiftly paced, Without Mercy is as convincing as it is chilling. First-rate and very highly recommended!" —Ralph Peters, New York Times bestselling author

The ultimate terrorist scenario, with authenticity steeped into every page. Col. David Hunt and R.J. Pineiro put their credentials on display in stellar fashion. Readers who enjoy Tom Clancy and Brad Taylor will find a new favorite. —Ward Larsen, USA Today bestselling author

WITHOUT FEAR

Outstanding… This military adventure thriller deserves to become a genre classic. —Publisher’s Weekly, starred review

BOOKS BY R.J. PINEIRO

Siege of Lightning

Ultimatum

Retribution

Exposure

Breakthrough

01-01-00

Y2K

Shutdown

Conspiracy.com

Firewall

Cyberterror

Havoc

SpyWare

The Eagle and the Cross

The Fall

Without Mercy *

Without Fear *

Ashes of Victory **

Avenue of Regrets

* With Col. David Hunt

** With Joe Weber

AVENUE OF REGRETS

A Novel

R.J. PINEIRO

Avenue of Regrets: A Novel

Auspicious Apparatus Press

Copyright © 2018 by Rogelio J. Pineiro

Published by arrangement with the author

All rights reserved. Produced in the United States of America. No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher. For information please contact editor@apparatuspress.com

ISBN-13: ISBN-13: 978-0-9966628-6-4 (paperback)

ISBN-10: ISBN-10: 0-9966628-6-3 (paperback)

ISBN-13: ISBN-13: 978-0-9966628-7-1 (ebook)

ISBN-10: ISBN-10: 0-9966628-7-1 (ebook)

The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

Table of Contents

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 20

CHAPTER 21

CHAPTER 22

CHAPTER 23

CHAPTER 24

CHAPTER 25

CHAPTER 26

CHAPTER 27

CHAPTER 28

CHAPTER 29

CHAPTER 30

CHAPTER 31

EPILOGUE

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

AVENUE OF REGRETS

A Novel

R.J. PINEIRO

Only in the darkness can you see the stars.

—Martin Luther King Jr.

CHAPTER 1

I didn’t always hate my life.

There was a time when I’d looked forward to getting up in the morning with the energy of a thoroughbred at the starting gate of the Preakness Stakes.

But as night falls, and I sip my third Mexican martini among complete strangers, my mind inexorably begins to drift to the event that propelled my life down this avenue of regrets.

My tired eyes contemplate the alcohol I consume to take the edge off of my transgressions while sitting in this crowded bar of a hotel in San Francisco after running an efficiency workshop at a local distributor of paper products.

Unfortunately, even this swirling green brew of cheap tequila, Cointreau, OJ, and lime juice fails to hold back the demons tonight—the seven-year anniversary of the worst mistake of my life.

Trying to blink away the past, I pop another jalapeno-stuffed olive in my mouth and chew it slowly while gazing around this watering hole. There are mostly casually dressed women of mixed ages wearing nametags from some convention sporting the acronym AFA.

Raul, a wiry Asian bartender with dyed purple hair, eyes the level of my drink while gliding by holding drafts, which he places on a tray at the other end of the bar. An aging blonde waitress wearing lots of thin turquoise and silver bracelets on both wrists picks up the load and starts to make her way through the packed house. The woman sports the hard looks of someone who’s spent the better part of the past twenty years working tables. I have an appreciation for her kind, as I paid my way through school by mixing drinks at various clubs around The University of Texas in Austin.

I continue to stare at the AFA sign once more and wonder, given that I’m a minority here, if it stands for the American Feminist Association. In which case, given my distant past, I’d probably be better off having drinks sequestered in my room.

But soon, I muse that AFA stands for the Alzheimer’s Foundation of America, and I’m unwittingly their latest case study. Although I am of sound mind, at least the last time I checked, I doubt even the worst form of dementia would shield me from my tragic wrongdoing.

On the lighter side, maybe all these women are members of the American Fertility Association and are searching for virile male donors.

I sigh and sip my drink, the only vice I have left after quitting smoking last fall—aside from coffee, which I began to drink by the gallon the moment I parted ways with the Marlboro Man.

To my right, the blonde waitress, scantily dressed in black, maneuvers carefully through this sea of intriguing female conventioneers while balancing the tray with apparent difficulty. For a moment I wonder if she is going to lose her load, but she quickly recovers.

I look towards the front desk and watch several flight attendants and a couple of pilots checking in.

Perhaps AFA stands for Association of Flight Attendants, but I quickly scratch that one, too, when an obese woman in a bright-red dress steps back and accidentally bumps into the petite waitress. Losing control of her tray, she deposits four cold ones down the black leather jacket of a conventioneer sitting at a table a couple dozen feet from me.

Mugs shatter on the floor. The waitress cups her face, her shiny bracelets rattling as she utters a scream in concert with the a cappella sung by her victim while the audience utters a long and low, Ooooh.

Damn temp, Asian Raul hisses under his breath while frowning, crossing his arms, and adding, We get our regular back tomorrow.

Temp waitress or not, this is the most excitement I’ve seen all week, and it brings back memories from simpler days in school.

Martini in hand, I loosen my tie, rub a hand over the nicotine patch on my right shoulder in a worthless effort to get it to pump more chemicals, and shift on the barstool to watch the show under a sea of dimmed track lights.

Her face red with embarrassment, her long hair swinging as much as the loose skin under her arms, the waitress apologizes profusely and offers them free drinks while producing a wad of black napkins. The soaked victim displays far more control than I would have, calmly removing her jacket under the amused gaze of her drinking companions: a lady with a silver ponytail and ridiculously large earrings, and two women who remind me of aging hippies dressed in tie dyed dresses. A heavily tattooed man with a bucket and a mop appears from somewhere and starts to make his way towards the spilled mess. He wears the indifferent mask of someone who has done this countless times. But having been there myself, I can testify that there are far worse forms of spattered fluids to mop up in a bar than cold draft beer.

And just as quickly as it began, the event dissipates, and I slowly turn back to face the bar. Raul has a ball game playing on the monitor, and I stare at it while welcoming the alcohol haze numbing my senses, slowly drawing me to my special place.

I was happy once, and that’s despite growing up with a father who’d beaten my mother to death after a decade of abuse—and who’d also sent me to the hospital a dozen times with broken bones and cuts while trying to protect her. I had managed to find a decent girl, father a great little boy, launch a promising consulting career, and build close friendships. In short, I had broken the cycle of abuse. I had been able to—

What’s your sign?

I frown. A woman to my immediate left is talking to me. I’m not the type to strike up a conversation with strangers at social gatherings, especially at hotel bars. I just want to down a few Mexicans in peace, let the alcohol mix with the nicotine, head up to my room, and get a good night’s sleep. Tomorrow I have to catch an early-morning flight back to Austin, where the weather app on my phone indicated temperatures continued to climb above record highs for early March.

Frowning, certain that seat was empty just a moment ago, I drop my eyebrows while slowly turning towards the owner of the voice, an attractive brunette in her forties holding a cosmopolitan. Her dark crimson fingernails match her lips. I have a feeling she turned heads a couple of decades ago, though her features seem a little off centered, suggesting she was in an accident or perhaps was physically abused. She reminds me of the women at Hill Country Haven, the shelter for battered women I run in Austin. My eyes momentarily drop to my right wrist, which is hugged by a lime-green rubber bracelet bearing our logo. We make them for less than ten cents each and give them out to anyone willing to wear one to help advertise our cause.

I raise my gaze. Neither the well-applied make-up, nor the silk scarf around her neck, nor the shoulder-length hair hiding her forehead and framing her face can conceal the slightly unbalanced features of a face exhibiting a fading tan. Fine wrinkles encircle her round brown eyes and slightly crooked mouth as she sips her drink, leaving an imprint on the edge of the glass.

How long has she been here?

Pardon me? I ask, finally making eye contact. There is an attractive delicacy and also the glint of recognition behind her stare.

Your sign, she says, tilting her nearly empty drink at me.

At my silence, she adds, Aren’t you with the AFA?

I desperately try to connect the dots between signs and AFA but all my alcohol-challenged mind can conjure is the American Fence Association.

As I’m about to embarrass myself, she adds, The American Federation of Astrologers, and proceeds to finish her drink before tapping a fingernail against the glass while looking in Raul’s direction.

Before I can help it, I lean closer and drop my voice a couple of decibels as I say, For a moment there I thought it stood for Another Fucking Acronym. I guess the tequila is drawing me out of my introverted shell.

She tilts her head back and lets out a brief laugh, animation glinting in her eyes. Good one.

I freeze. The laugh, the mannerism, even her intonation start to unveil painful memories. I instinctively force savage control to lock them down tight.

So, you with them? I ask, looking for any resemblance but finding not one feature that reminds me of—

Do I look like a fortune teller to you?

She looks like a former showgirl who, like me, life has banged up a bit but refuses to break. But there’s something about her that reminds me of someone I’ve been trying desperately to forget. Suddenly, I have the urge to get up and celebrate the anniversary of my demise in the comforting solitude of my hotel room. I remember seeing a mini bar under the flat screen I can empty, never mind the inflated price I’ll pay, which will be worth it to avoid this…

So, she adds at my silence, you never told me your sign.

Before I can reply, Raul returns with a fresh drink for her, setting the pinkish concoction in a martini glass on the counter while saying, Cosmo for the lady.

Cointreau instead of triple sec, right? she asks.

Just like the last one, he says, winking and hustling away.

I nod approvingly. That’s how I used to make them.

She takes a test sip and nods, leaving another lipstick imprint on the edge of the glass. Well? she asks, looking back at me. Are we sharing signs or not?

I thought that stuff went out with the Seventies, I say as my parting line. But the dark images of growing up in the late Seventies suddenly paint a picture of my drunken father beating my mother with my little-league baseball bat. I’m crying, hanging on to her, trying to protect her, trying to—

Anybody home? she asks, snapping the fingers of her right hand in front of me.

Sorry, I mumble, adding, Aries. I’m an Aries.

Gently stealing my drink and setting it on the bar top next to hers, she takes my hands, examines my palms, looks into the distance for a few moments, and says in an authoritative voice, Aries. Unexpected encounters or unusual circumstances opening old wounds are likely to arise during this second week of March as Uranus aligns with the Sun. However, don’t let worries or doubts get the best of you as situations may seem bigger than they really are.

I was never one to believe that zodiac stuff, but this is just too weird. Am I that easy to read? What must be a hopelessly dumbfound look on my face draws a devilish leer, which, like the rest of her, is a little crooked.

Taking a long breath, I retrieve my hands and gulp down the last inch of my martini, closing my eyes as the tequila scratches my throat and my fingers rub the nicotine patch very hard.

Easy there, big fellow, she says, her grin broadening. That was just a loose forecast. If you’re really interested in unlocking the meaning of your horoscope I can hook you up with an accredited astrologer who can set up and interpret a mathematically-correct chart for you.

I thought you said that you weren’t part of the—

"I just asked you if I looked like a fortune teller," she replies, giving me a slow feminine wink, complete with fluttering eyelashes and all.

I inhale deeply again under her amused stare and use my empty glass to signal Raul for my fourth—and hopefully last—Mexican of the evening.

He nods and gets to work.

What’s with the shoulder? she asks.

I stop rubbing it and frown. Nicotine patch.

How long?

Six months.

And how’s that working out for you?

Good days and bad days.

She reaches in her purse a flashes a pack of Virginia Slims. Tried three times. No good.

I’m David Wallace, I say, extending an open hand, which she shakes firmly. And you are?

I’m fascinated you haven’t tried to pick me up yet. You’re not gay, are you?

Not the last time I checked, I say as I watch Raul pour various shots into a stainless-steel shaker filled with ice.

I’m not straight, says Raul, smiling and winking as he starts to shake my drink.

The mystery woman and I look at him somewhat incredulously, not certain how to react.

Say, Raul adds, you heard what happened when the gay guy tried to quit smoking and put a nicotine patch on his penis?

She giggles and briefly looks away. I narrow my stare at this character.

Amid our silence, he says, He went down to two butts a day.

We laugh in unison.

Here you go, big boy, Raul says, grinning while delivering yet another beautiful drink topped by a perfect rim of salt and accompanied by another tiny silver tray with jalapeno-stuffed olives. The man’s jokes might be lame but his bartending is top notch.

"Gracias, Raul," I say as he moves briskly to look after another thirsty customer.

So, she says, are you married?

I close my eyes, though not at the realization that this woman is trying to pick me up.

I was married once.

I had a wonderful little boy.

I had a great career and good friends.

And I managed to screw it all up seven years ago tonight, so happy fucking anniversary to me.

And this conversation isn’t funny anymore.

Always gay or married, she says more to herself than me, disappointment filming her eyes as she finishes her drink, setting it down on the bar, and starting to turn away. Never fails.

Widower, I reply, the sadness bubbling through my façade quickly rearranging her quirky but enchanting features into a mask of compassion. Trouble is that what she sees isn’t just sadness but also an overwhelming sense of guilt.

I…I’m truly sorry to hear that, David, she finally replies, her fingernails softly tapping me on the wrist before offering an open hand. I’m Kate Larson.

We shake again. No worries, Kate Larson. It was a long time ago. I’ve learned to move on, I lie as the face of my deceased son, David, flashes in my mind.

Hold me, Daddy. Hold me tight.

I force the memory away as we hold the handshake while staring at each other in uncomfortable silence. For a moment, the clattering of glasses fades away, along with the rumble of conversations, and the rattling shaker as Raul mixes the ingredients of someone else’s heavenly poison.

So, I finally say, releasing her hand, did you enjoy the convention?

She nods. It was good to get away from the heat for a few days.

Heat from where?

Austin.

Now this is surreal. I mean, what are the odds of meeting what appears to be a decent and attractive woman my age in a bar across the country who also lives in Austin, and on the seventh anniversary of my life shifting to the dark side? Perhaps this roomful of astrologers is acting as some sort of cosmic antenna, radiating multiple megawatts of positive energy to pull me out of my self-inflicted state of misery. Could it be that someone high up thinks that seven years of darkness is long enough of a punishment? Maybe my luck is being reversed after burying the shards of my shattered life beneath gallons of booze and many a moonlit night.

Deciding that perhaps she’s indeed some form of celestial lifeline, I open up and tell her I also live in Austin.

All of the sudden we’re talking about our favorite bars on Sixth Street. We then switch to bicycling on the Veloway, kayaking on Lady Bird Lake, and hiking in the hill country—activities I have come to enjoy after pitching my last pack of cancer sticks.

The conversation inevitably leads to ways to beat the merciless triple-digit Texas summer heat.

Say, I tell her, deciding not to be outdone by Raul by trying one of my favorite Texas summer jokes from my bartending days. Speaking of heat, do you know how hot it is in Texas in August?

She gives me a devilish smile that nearly makes me forget the damned joke. But I recover.

So hot that you see trees whistling at passing dogs.

She flashes a smile, puts a hand on my forearm while leaning closer and whispering in my ear, Better than Raul’s, but keep your day job.

Her touch, combined with the smell of her perfume and the alcohol on her breath starts to—

And by the way, what is it you do? she asks, retrieving her hand while leaning back and taking another sip of her drink.

My background is in consulting, I reply, but I run a shelter in Austin for battered women. It’s called Hill Country Haven, or HCH for short. I raise my wrist and show her my lime-green rubber bracelet embossed with HILL COUNTRY HAVEN – BE NOT AFRAID in orange. Mine, however is quite weathered, having worn it since we came up with the inexpensive advertising campaign four years ago. The orange tint has rubbed off from the words HILL COUNTRY HAVEN and NOT, which I saw as a sign from above of what’s coming to me for what I did to my family.

She runs a finger over the embossing and says, Very noble of you, David. Though you should think about getting a new bracelet. This one’s a little creepy.

I’m about to reply when her phone rings.

She produces an iPhone, answers, and listens for about thirty seconds, color draining from her face by the time she hangs up.

Kate looks as if she’s just spoken to the devil himself.

Is everything all right?

I…I need to go, she replies, looking about her with obvious concern.

She looks in the direction of the blonde waitress, who is serving drinks at the other end of the bar, and who looks at Kate for an instant before returning to her work.

Toying with her scarf while briefly biting her lower lip, Kate looks back at me and says, It’s been great…talking to you. She reaches in her purse and produces a business card. If you ever need insight into the future—or the past—call this number. It’s the AFA’s hotline. Take care.

Is there anything I can do? I ask, not knowing what else to say.

She shakes her head and gives me a half smile while placing a twenty-dollar bill on the counter. So long, David.

And just like that, she rushes off, vanishing as suddenly as she had appeared. I shrug and set the card down.

So much for a cosmic intervention on my dark anniversary.

I exhale, stare at the bar, and focus on the green concoction in my hand, gazing at my uncertain future in its emerald swirl. I think of the pain I have caused, of the people I have hurt, of the lives I have destroyed.

Of the sobering fact that perhaps there is no redemption for people like me.

Deciding I’ve had more than enough fun and alcohol for one evening, I pay Raul and stand with some difficulty.

As I’m about to pocket the AFA card and head out, I notice a note scribbled on the back.

THINGS WERE NOT AS THEY

SEEMED 7 YEARS AGO.

CAREFUL WHO YOU TRUST WITH THIS.

CHAPTER 2

The room falls away.

The conversations vanish along with the clanging behind the counter and the ball game on TV. I just stare at the handwriting, at the surreal message, my heart racing, my ears ringing as my blood pressure rises.

THINGS WERE NOT AS THEY

SEEMED 7 YEARS AGO.

CAREFUL WHO YOU TRUST WITH THIS.

What the hell does that mean?

What wasn’t as it seemed back then?

I tragically lost my wife, my son, my job, my friends, and even my freedom while I was tried for a crime I didn’t commit. And all because of a single mistake, one stupid night where a combination of long-working hours and the stress it put on my marriage led me to a tragic lapse of judgment. The past seven years have been one arduous climb out of that hole.

All of that has been very fucking real to me.

And what does she mean about being careful?

Who was she? How does she know what happened back then? Why did she look familiar? Why did she seek me out on the anniversary of that terrible night? And why did she leave so abruptly?

The questions choke me. I try to control my breathing, fearing the combination of alcohol and high-blood pressure will take me down in the middle of this group of astrologers.

Shoving the card in my wallet among my credit cards, I slowly stand.

You okay there, big guy? Raul asks. Want me to get you a cab?

Thanks…I’m a guest here, I mumble, before thanking him for the drinks and heading out, though walking straight is a major undertaking demanding my full concentration.

Questions and anxiety assaulting my mind, I manage to reach the lobby with considerable effort. A pale guy with ash-blond hair wearing what looks like a security uniform speaks to a brunette behind the front desk. The borderline albino shoots me a bored glance before returning to his conversation. I walk past them without attracting further attention and turn towards the long corridor leading to the elevators.

As I focus on my balance, I approach a glass door marked ICE & SNACKS.

Leave me alone! a woman protests from inside the room.

I stop, peek through the glass door, and spot Kate arguing with a guy in a dark pinstriped business suit who looks like he just stepped out of an Italian Mafia movie. An Asian woman dressed in a ridiculously short miniskirt, knee-high boots, and a near-see-through white blouse chews gum loudly while watching the show. They stand in front of a rumbling icemaker flanked by vending machines.

I saw you talking to him! the Mafiosi lookalike says. What the fuck did you tell him?

Suddenly, he clasps Kate’s hands and twists, forcing her to her knees, her face a mask of pain as she utters a barely audible cry. The Asian grabs Kate’s scarf and turns it like a tourniquet, choking her.

Hey! Let her go! I shout, pushing the door open, startling